Where am I?
Here, of course. Busy. Absorbed in the world of work, my students, my child, my pets. Headed into the final weeks of the semester, managing student teachers and assignments and grant proposals, my time slips away into wisps of activity.
On the weekends, I clean the house. My bedroom often looks like a battle scene in tableau during the week. I choose the costume in which I will face the day then leave a swirling tempest of debris in my wake; shoes that didn't fit the outfit, or jewelry tried and rejected.
On the weekend, I attempt to restore order to the havoc.
This Sunday I woke from a dream that not only made me sad, it made me feel uneasy. Out of place. I am accustomed to the dreams of sadness, and when I have those I wake slowly and wait to open my eyes. Sometimes I address the sadness out loud so that it can fade. Today, however, I woke feeling pursued. I made my way downstairs where Terrance was fully engaged in the day, coffee brewing, croissants made. I stood before him, mute, until he moved towards me to hug me. He tries to soothe me, reminding me that dreams aren't real.
I know different.
Later, after a cup of coffee, I ponder these fleeting depths of unhappiness, as if sounding out the bottom. What have I to feel discontent about? I have a job, in a field I love. I am using my degree.
I get to indulge in my obsessions, Perfume and shoes and dresses made in a vintage style.
I clean. I collect all the shoes and return them to their homes. I return necklaces to their hangers and the hair ornaments to their homes. Am I unhappy?
Not really. Melancholy on occasion, but I think that is my nature. I am Sylvia Plath under the fig tree, pondering the directions I could have taken, the people I could have loved and the person I might have become.
Those ghost lives can become overwhelming, crowding into my own life. I work hard to keep them contained in their boxes, but they slither out on occasion, finding their way into my waking and sleeping dreams.
I retrieve the vacuum after I clean all the litter boxes. Before I can begin, I search the carpet for the bobby pins that perpetually escape my hair. It is a joke at work. You can see my trail in the building by the pins left behind. My hair rebuffs the attempted order that the pins impose and ejects them, leaving a trail of small metal implements in my wake.
Home is no better. I open the closet and find another three, laying there in the dark.
I vacuum, watching the eddy of feathers and rabbit fur in the belly of the machine.
I ponder the figs not eaten while I wash my makeup brushes, preparing for the performance of another week. Would I have been happier with someone else, somewhere else? Is being busy and not actively unhappy enough? Have I have been bewitched by some eidolon of joy?
I don't know.
Mischa has discovered that I placed my cloak on the chair and quickly nestles into his spot, daring me to disturb him.
Another Sunday passes.
Here, of course. Busy. Absorbed in the world of work, my students, my child, my pets. Headed into the final weeks of the semester, managing student teachers and assignments and grant proposals, my time slips away into wisps of activity.
On the weekends, I clean the house. My bedroom often looks like a battle scene in tableau during the week. I choose the costume in which I will face the day then leave a swirling tempest of debris in my wake; shoes that didn't fit the outfit, or jewelry tried and rejected.
On the weekend, I attempt to restore order to the havoc.
This Sunday I woke from a dream that not only made me sad, it made me feel uneasy. Out of place. I am accustomed to the dreams of sadness, and when I have those I wake slowly and wait to open my eyes. Sometimes I address the sadness out loud so that it can fade. Today, however, I woke feeling pursued. I made my way downstairs where Terrance was fully engaged in the day, coffee brewing, croissants made. I stood before him, mute, until he moved towards me to hug me. He tries to soothe me, reminding me that dreams aren't real.
I know different.
Later, after a cup of coffee, I ponder these fleeting depths of unhappiness, as if sounding out the bottom. What have I to feel discontent about? I have a job, in a field I love. I am using my degree.
I get to indulge in my obsessions, Perfume and shoes and dresses made in a vintage style.
I clean. I collect all the shoes and return them to their homes. I return necklaces to their hangers and the hair ornaments to their homes. Am I unhappy?
Not really. Melancholy on occasion, but I think that is my nature. I am Sylvia Plath under the fig tree, pondering the directions I could have taken, the people I could have loved and the person I might have become.
Those ghost lives can become overwhelming, crowding into my own life. I work hard to keep them contained in their boxes, but they slither out on occasion, finding their way into my waking and sleeping dreams.
I retrieve the vacuum after I clean all the litter boxes. Before I can begin, I search the carpet for the bobby pins that perpetually escape my hair. It is a joke at work. You can see my trail in the building by the pins left behind. My hair rebuffs the attempted order that the pins impose and ejects them, leaving a trail of small metal implements in my wake.
Home is no better. I open the closet and find another three, laying there in the dark.
I vacuum, watching the eddy of feathers and rabbit fur in the belly of the machine.
I ponder the figs not eaten while I wash my makeup brushes, preparing for the performance of another week. Would I have been happier with someone else, somewhere else? Is being busy and not actively unhappy enough? Have I have been bewitched by some eidolon of joy?
Mischa has discovered that I placed my cloak on the chair and quickly nestles into his spot, daring me to disturb him.
Another Sunday passes.
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